Convergence
by Mijan
Summary: Pike wasn't supposed to be in Iowa, but there he was, weighing his future against scales that would never balance. Kirk had given up on his future long ago. McCoy's past had been pulled out from underneath him.  Paths converge in the least likely places.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: ** This story was originally written in November of 2009. The whole story is actually an outtake from the ST:XI movie timeline, and weaves around the events set in Riverside, Iowa.

**"Convergence"**

The view from the seventh floor of Archer Hall was nice enough, and Captain Christopher Pike might have been satisfied with it, had he never seen the view from the bridge of a starship. Once you've skimmed the atmosphere of a supergiant planet, soared through the tails of comets, and seen star systems and nebulae fly by like pollen on a spring breeze, a seven-story view of San Francisco Bay just doesn't cut it anymore. He knew that, and so did the Admiral who was currently being announced by the too-pleasant administrative assistant on the intercom.

Knowing that there was no avoiding this, he turned his back to the view of the bay and tapped the comm screen. "Send him in."

Admiral Schaefer strolled into the office looking far too confident; it was clear that he wasn't. "Captain Pike, so good of you to rearrange your schedule on such short notice."

But he stood, as expected, and reached across his desk to shake the Admiral's hand. "Admiral Schaefer, a pleasure to see you."

It would have been a pleasure any other time. Pike had known Schaefer since his first assignment; the man had been his section leader, mentor, and friend. Starfleet Command had clearly hoped that the old friendship would be a factor in this discussion. Pike would much rather deal with someone he hardly knew; he hated having to say no to an old friend. He sat as soon as Schaefer had settled himself.

Schaefer looked around the office casually. "Your office looks like you've barely moved in, Captain. No pictures, no art. You've been here for three months."

"Four months, Admiral," Pike replied, as neutrally as he could. "I'm only adjunct faculty and a visiting instructor, so I don't have many meetings in here. And I saw no reason to over-decorate an office for a temporary assignment."

For a flash, Schaefer looked distinctly uncomfortable, but he settled his face back into a look of agreeable affability. "Ah yes, down to business. Your next assignment. I'm pleased that I've got the opportunity to discuss this with you, Captain," he began conversationally. "I'm sorry that Starfleet Command hasn't offered you something concrete yet, but we've been more than impressed with your work at the Academy this semester. Your tactics and command seminars have been extremely popular, and there have been multiple requests for you to offer more seminars next year. Maybe even a few full training courses."

"I know that," Pike said evenly, "and you know what I'm going to say."

Schaefer inclined his head. "That you have absolutely no intent to be here next year."

"And here I wondered how you made Admiral so young," Pike said, only letting a hint of sarcasm slip through.

"Your skill for flattery hasn't changed, Chris," he said, letting a note of exasperation slip through. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. "Listen, you're good for the Academy, even if it's not your preferred assignment."

"You're damn right, it's not my 'preferred assignment.' I taught for a year as an adjunct when I was a Lieutenant, and I enjoyed it well enough, but I don't want to be planetside again. Not now. Not at this point in my career. You wouldn't want it either.

"Then what do you want, Chris?" He gestured with one hand, inviting Pike to speak freely.

"The _Endeavour_." Pike fixed him with a firm stare. "She'll be refit in two months, and I want her."

Schaefer sighed heavily. "We know, Captain. And you would be an excellent match for her… in any other situation."

Pike couldn't stop his eyebrow from twitching upwards just a hair. "Situation? The only situation I see is that I'm being kept out of space to fill an administrative role."

The Admiral looked almost apologetic. "This is hardly administrative. Listen, Christopher, you're the best we have, and we all know it. However, we're having enough problems here. We're dealing with multiple security threats. Recruiting is down. Our best tacticians and potential instructors are either ready to retire or are already on assignments."

"Then pull someone else off another assignment. I've earned a ship."

"We _know_, Chris. But… listen, we've received more recent threats from Terra Prime, and the rumors are scaring off enough candidates that the incoming class is smaller than we've had in over two decades, just as we're getting ready to expand our fleet. Even Starfleet Medical is short-staffed. We need a strong, calm presence at the forefront."

"And you want me to be your poster boy," Pike said, dropping his tone darkly.

Schaefer shook his head emphatically. "No, Chris. We want your leadership. But right now, we need that leadership here, on the ground. The Academy needs you. Our next wave of cadets needs you."

"You need a puppet, Admiral." He took a slow, controlled breath. It was an effort not to reach up and rub the bridge of his nose. Instead, he kept a steady eye contact with Schaefer, a man who had once been the bold young Lieutenant that Pike had been privileged to follow, but was now beginning to develop the standard double-chin and gut of the admiralty. "Starfleet always has, and always will be best-served by our leaders leading from the front. I _know_ that you know this, sir. What happened to that boldness in Starfleet leadership? You want to bring in the best cadets? Then people need to see what they _could_ be doing, the adventures they could be having if they enlist… because the best folks want to make a difference in the universe, not sit behind a desk grading term papers."

It was rare for the Admiral to look so flustered; it was clear he'd expected resistance, but perhaps not so much. "Pike, I understand. I really do. Some days, I wonder if Starfleet is castrating itself from the top down… but the situation is what it is. We need you, but we don't want to make it an order. We want this to be an assignment of your own choosing. Captain Perzynski is taking over Starbase Six, so the Academy needs a new Commandant of Cadets, and you know you would be brilliant."

"I would be. On the bridge of the _Endeavour_."

For a long moment, Pike and Schaefer looked at each other, neither one flinching, neither one backing down. Finally, without looking away, the Admiral spoke.

"Starfleet Command has an offer to make you, if you'll give it a chance. We think it might make it worth your while to stay at the Academy."

Pike raised his eyebrows, considering Schaefer. _You'll have to tip your hand if you want me to take that bet._ "What's the offer?"

"You'll need to see it for yourself."

_Not good enough. _ "How long at the Academy?"

"Three years."

Pike stood from his chair. "Thank you for your time and consideration, Admiral. I'll submit my assignment request through normal channels tomorrow morning."

"Wait, Christopher."

"Yes, Sir?" The inquiry wasn't pleasant.

The Admiral shifted in his seat, uncrossed his legs, and leaned heavily on the edge of Pike's desk. "The _Enterprise_."

Slowly, Pike sat back down. "What about her?"

"Construction began about a year ago. She's in the Riverside Shipyards in Iowa."

"All of Starfleet knows that. The first Federation ship to bear that old name."

"She'll be our flagship," the Admiral said, a note of reverence in his voice. "And if you stay at the Academy for three years, she'll be ready, and she's yours."

Pike held his breath for a moment, hearing nothing but the tick of his old heirloom clock on his desk and the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears. "The _Enterprise_?"

"Don't say yes or no yet, Chris. Go take a look at her first." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handheld PADD, and slid it across the desk. "One of the shuttlecrafts carrying new recruits from the East Coast had to land after an in-flight malfunction this morning. They touched down at the Riverside shipyard. It will take at least a couple of days to get the shuttlecraft back up and running, so we need to send someone out to retrieve the recruits if we're going to have them in-processed and ready for the new semester on Monday. I thought you might like to go for a flight, stretch your space-legs a little bit, and… think."

Pike reached down and picked up the PADD, skimming through the unsigned orders on the screen.

"There's a transport shuttlecraft ready to go in Hangar Two," Schaefer continued. "You can take it to Iowa tonight, rendezvous with Commander Toland who is in charge of this chalk of cadets, and depart at 0800 hours tomorrow morning. And while you're there… take a good long look at that ship, Captain. She's little more than a skeleton right now, but she's still the most beautiful sight my old eyes have ever seen."

Slowly, deliberately, Pike slid the PADD back across his desk to the Admiral, surveying him carefully. Finally, he took a deep breath that felt like a cry of surrender. "Looks like I've got to pack my bag and get to Hangar Two."

A look of stark relief washed over Schaefer's face. "I'll sign the orders immediately." He stood, and Pike followed suit.

"I'm not promising anything yet, Admiral."

"I'm not asking you to. Just look at her, and tell me what you think."

"That, I can do."

.&.

The sun was just beginning to set over the Riverside Shipyards as Pike banked the shuttle around towards the landing pad and got his first good look at the _Enterprise_. He'd hoped it would be hideous. He'd thought that the mere skeleton of a starship wouldn't be so impressive and imposing. He'd wished the shipyard night lights wouldn't come up just as the shuttle dropped below the sun for the final landing cycle, illuminating the elegant structure from below with a brilliant white-blue glow. Well, he wasn't getting what he wanted from Starfleet, Pike realized, so why should anything else go his way?

It was all he could do to pull his eyes away from the ship and focus on the altimeter and proximity sensors while he completed the landing cycle. The shuttle settled onto the pad with a metallic clunk that echoed through the empty passenger compartment. The following morning, the seats would be filled with cadets, but for now, it was as hollow as the feeling in the pit of Pike's stomach.

He acknowledged the salute of the shipyard night foreman as he disembarked from the main shuttle hatch. Lieutenant Commander Toland was standing just off the side of the landing pad, hands folded behind her back, waiting. When he made eye contact, she snapped a salute, which he returned as he tried to place her face. Hard eyes and a petite frame, she didn't seem intimidating until the second glance. He'd heard about her – she worked in one of the training simulation facilities and as an adjunct in Basic Tactics. And… "Commander Toland," he greeted her with a smile of recognition. "I just remembered how I know you. You took my Tactics class as a cadet… what was it – ten years ago?"

She pressed her mouth into a flat line. "Eleven and a half, sir."

He tilted his head to the side. "Ah, you're right. It's good to see you. You've done well for yourself, it seems."

She smiled, but it seemed forced. "As well as could be expected, sir."

He almost inquired, but kept the curiosity to himself for the moment. He couldn't blame her for being irritable with the sudden change in transportation. "What's the status on the shuttlecraft?"

She indicated a shuttlecraft on the other side of the landing platform with a nod of her head. Several panels had been removed from the side, and one of the propulsion units had some obvious scorch marks around it. "Circuitry burnout," she said flatly. "They're reviewing the maintenance logs now, but at this point, knowing who let the repairs slip won't help us. The shuttle is out of service for at least a week."

"No worries, Commander. We're just glad you were able to land it without injuries. They've already assigned a tech to pilot the shuttlecraft back to campus when it's repaired so you'll be on campus for the start of the semester."

"Thank you, Sir." She hesitated. "When they said they were sending a backup shuttle, I was a bit surprised to hear that you were piloting."

"Just wanted a chance to do a bit of flying while I'm stuck planetside, Commander."

"I see. It's a privilege."

"It's my pleasure." He grinned lightly. "You and the new recruits will be back at campus tomorrow morning. Where are they now?"

"This way. Follow me." They began walking away from the shuttle pad.

"How many cadets on this chalk?" Pike asked conversationally, wondering if he remembered Toland well enough to know whether she was usually this terse.

"Thirty-eight."

"Almost a full shuttle."

She nodded. "We've got a couple of bright ones in this group. There's an engineering hopeful from Germany who some are saying will give that third-year Scottish cadet a run for his money, although my money's still on the older cadet."

"I heard about him. Apparently, he put Admiral Rozman on the spot last month when he proposed a new theory of trans-warp propulsion and time travel – something about a slingshot – in the middle of class, and Rozman couldn't knock down his theory."

"Rozman is still pissed about that," Toland said drily, but with a hint of amusement. "We've also picked up a linguist from Africa with three advanced degrees in language theory and a knack for soaking up new dialects like a sponge soaks up water."

"Good. We need more linguists." He tried for a smile. "Universal translators can only go so far. I'd trust a sentient being over the best computer in the galaxy every time. You can't synthesize the human factor."

Toland quirked her eyebrows humorlessly. "If you insist, Sir." She tilted her head up, indicating for Pike to look ahead. "Here they are."

The cadets were socializing quietly in front of the shipyard admin building, but one of them saw the two senior officers approaching and called the group to attention.

"At ease, cadets," Pike called out. "Now gather around. Starfleet Academy has arranged lodging for the night in the Shipyard barracks, but has authorized you to leave Starfleet property for your evening meal."

There was an immediate rustle of excitement amongst the cadets, and Pike found himself irritated. They'd barely left home, and already they wanted to be cut loose. Maybe he couldn't blame them; new friends, a new place. And then, of course, they'd been sitting around a shipyard all day with nothing to do. Pike nodded in acquiescence to their excitement. "Your ID's have thirty credits apiece for food and transportation. There are several restaurants in town, so I don't expect any of you to go beyond Riverside. I want everyone back here by 2200 hours in the barracks, lights out. The shuttle leaves at 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Any questions?"

One skinny, pale hand went up.

Pike raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Cadet?"

"Why are we not proceeding directly to campus tonight, Sir?" he asked in a thick German accent. _Ah, the engineer_, Pike thought, barely able to suppress a chuckle as one of his new classmates elbowed him.

"Because I have business to tend to here, Cadet, and I'm the one with the shuttlecraft that works." He let himself smile slightly at the few chuckles that broke out through the group. "No other questions? Good. Report back to Commander Toland no later than 2200 hours. Dismissed."

The cadets scattered as quickly as he'd hoped, leaving him standing in the rapidly fading light with Commander Toland. He looked at her with a skeptically. "Aren't you going to go out and find some dinner?"

She shrugged. "I'm going to stay at the barracks to check in the cadets as they return. And you? Business to attend, sir?"

He couldn't keep the grin off his face as he glanced back over his shoulder, letting himself look at the _Enterprise_ for the first time since he'd landed. His eyes and thoughts fixed on the bright shape of the massive ship that towered above the steaming generators, towers, and scaffolding. He looked back to Toland. "I'm here about a lady," he said.

For the first time since he'd seen her beside the shuttlepad, Toland cracked what seemed like a real smile. "I see, Sir." She inclined her head as she took a polite step backwards. "Have a nice date." Then she turned and walked away towards the Shipyard housing quarter.

Schooling the almost-giddy grin off his face, he let himself into the admin building. Chief Levant, the head engineer for the construction of the _Enterprise_, was waiting for him. A broad-shouldered woman with a round, tanned face and scruffy, short hair, she looked like she did as much of the labor as the leadership. She stood and extended her hand. "Captain, welcome to the Riverside Shipyards."

He wasn't surprised by the firm grip, and squeezed back in turn. "Thank you, Chief. I hear you're building me a ship."

She gave him an appraising look, not releasing his hand. "I hear you want to fly my ship when she's ready."

Pike chuckled lightly, but gave her a sincere look. "If you'll let me."

After a heartbeat, she gave his hand one more firm shake and released it with a hearty laugh. "I just might," she said, stepping around her desk and leading the way back to the door. "Come along, Captain. Let's take a look at her."

Three hours later, Chief Levant had shown him every detail of the ship they could safely access. Although little more than a skeleton with unfinished skin and a few arteries, it was already obvious just how beautiful she was going to be. The structures of the decks were already in place. The Engineering section was massive. The science labs would house some of the most advanced research technologies in the Federation. The conduits and framework of the weapons and shielding systems were already in place, integrated as they had to be in the core structure of the ship. And then there was bridge.

That's where Pike found himself at the end of the tour. Chief Levant seemed to understand his need to think quietly from that perch, high atop the pinnacle of the shipyard and the unfinished sculpture of the ship. So he was left alone with his thoughts and the view.

There was no command chair yet, of course, but he stood in the middle of the bridge where he knew the chair would be placed. In front of him, there was a wide opening where the viewscreen would eventually be installed, and it gave an uninterrupted vista of the stars spanning the horizon. For the first time since the debates had begun, he was actually pleased that the ship was being built on the ground, and almost grateful that her construction had been delayed.

The _Enterprise_ should have been built in the San Francisco Orbital Shipyards years ago, but design plans had been changed after the destruction of the _Kelvin_. If the Romulans were packing ships with that sort of destructive force, Starfleet needed a flagship that had a chance in hell of standing up to that sort of threat. The original plans for the _Enterprise_ had been scrapped and redrawn, promising a ship that was larger and more powerful than anything Starfleet had built before. In the interim, Terra Prime had become active again for the first time in decades, building on the fear and resentment caused by the destruction of the _Kelvin_. Seven years ago, they'd even knocked a satellite station out of orbit. Starfleet had heightened security around all Federation facilities, but after Terra Prime issued a standing threat against the San Francisco Orbital Shipyards… well, Pike understood why they would be reluctant to build their new flagship in orbit.

He was gripped by a fleeting notion: _Sometimes, I think the Kelvin changed everything_. He knew it rationally, but sometimes it felt as thought the universe was fundamentally different from what it might have been in a way that people would never understand. On the heels of that thought, other questions struck him: Where he would be now? Where would the _Enterprise_ be? What fates had been changed for everyone else who had been touched by this disaster?

Fruitless thoughts, he was sure.

Whatever else might have been, the fact remained that the skeleton of the new flagship was in Iowa. And so was Pike. He was the first Captain to walk the bridge, unfinished though it was. He couldn't begrudge the fates if they'd seen fit to grant him that privilege, and the view that came with it.

The sky was so dark and the bridge so high that he could let himself imagine, just for a moment, that the ship was already in orbit, ready to leave on her maiden voyage. The massive engines were thrumming ever so softly beneath the deck plates, and the computer was beeping and chiming brightly as each system activated, ready to move the ship off to their next grand adventure beyond the stars.

In the back of his mind, he tried to curse Schaefer for sending him to Iowa, but he couldn't. The man had been right. Even if that meant he was stuck planetside for three years, Pike accepted that his fate was sealed; he needed this ship. The _Endeavour _was nice – an earlier Constitution Class model – but now that he'd seen this, it seemed like a poor consolation prize. If the price he had to pay was patience, then he'd ante up. He'd been lost the moment he'd seen the _Enterprise_ from the shuttlecraft. Now, he was drowning in it, and he couldn't think of a better way to go.

He was pulled from his thoughts by his communicator beeping. "Pike here."

"_Captain, this is Lieutenant Commander Toland_."

Pike blinked and glanced down at his chrono. To his surprise, it was already after 2300 hours. "Commander, my apologies. I should have returned to the barracks to check in on the cadets as well."

_"No need to apologize, Sir. You're not the one with a curfew. However, we might have a bit of a situation with the ones who do."_

Pike frowned. "A situation, Commander?"

"_Yes, sir._" She sounded more irritated than frantic, so it didn't seem like a catastrophe. "_I'm at the barracks now. Could you meet me back here?"_

"I'm on my way."

Pike flipped the communicator shut and tucked it back in his pocket_. So much for a simple evening_, he thought as he hurried to the personnel lift that ran through the shaft where a real turbolift would be installed. The lift doors slid shut, blocking out the view of the bridge.

A moment later, Pike hurried out of the lift at the ground level, but as he reached the edge of the construction zone, he stopped, turned, and gave one last look up at the _Enterprise_. Now, she was a glowing white silhouette against the star-speckled night sky, and Pike's breath caught for just a moment at the illusion of that ship, in space, completed… and _his_. Swearing an oath to both himself and to the ship, he finally let out the breath, turned on his heel, and strode towards the barracks without a backward glance.

.&.

"How many of them are missing?" Pike kept his voice level as they walked out of the barracks together, leaving the remaining cadets under computer surveillance.

"Thirteen," she growled softly, keeping a quick stride to pace his longer legs. "They're not responding to communicator hails. None of the local restaurants have seen them, and there aren't that many. It's a pretty small town, aside from the shipyard personnel."

"And none of them have checked in even once since we dismissed them?"

"No."

"Any reports of criminal activity from civilian authorities?"

"No reports, Captain, but I'm deferring to you on whether we should contact the local police to look for them."

Pike thought silently for a moment, listening only to the heavy thuds of his own boots on the plascrete and the lighter, quicker clicks of Toland's boots as they moved. "No, we'll leave the local cops out of this unless we can't find them by 0200 hours ourselves. This is an internal matter."

"Aye, sir."

They walked silently to the main gate of the shipyard compound, and Pike automatically returned the salute from the security guard, then stopped short. He turned back towards the guardhouse and addressed the security guard. "Crewman, if you were a cadet on an evening of shore leave, and you were stuck here in town, where would you go?"

The guard stepped forward, hands tucked respectfully behind his back. "Well, sir, there are only two places in town I can think of. There's Harvey's Billiards in the middle of town – pool hall and bar. Then there's the Shipyard Bar on the edge of town. Could be either of those, but I'd lay odds on the Shipyard Bar."

Pike nodded, considering the options. "Is there a spare vehicle available?"

"Three civilian-style cars in the motorpool, sir."

Hesitating for only a moment, Pike quickly decided. "Commander, we'll go together. Crewman, have someone release one of the extra cars in the motorpool."

"Yes, Sir." He gave a sharp nod and ducked back inside the gatehouse. After a moment as he tapped codes into the computer screen, he looked up and nodded. "I've unlocked the gate for the motorpool, Captain. Vehicle seven has been released to you. ID badge access."

"Good man," Pike said, already walking quickly towards the motorpool gate with Toland close at his heels.

Moments later, Pike was on the road as the car's navigation system directed him smoothly towards the Shipyard Bar. Toland was silent beside him. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be able to leave the cadets under Toland's supervision so he could get a decent drink for himself while he was there. After a bizarre day like this, he could sure use one.

This morning, he'd awoken in San Francisco, fully expecting to come out of his lunch meeting with the Admiral with the promise of orders for the _Endeavor_. Now, he was in Iowa, he'd just accepted the fact that he was going to live planetside for the next three years, and he was running around this backwater town, trying to track down a group of wayward cadets.

_Sometimes_,he thought irritably, _the universe has a really sick sense of humor_.

The gratingly pleasant voice of the navigation system took him down a long, straight road, a right turn, a left, another right, and there was the Shipyard Bar. As he pulled into the parking lot, he saw one young man in a Starfleet cadet uniform standing outside the bar, putting on quite the public display of affection with a local woman.

He kept himself from growling – it would only hasten the headache that was creeping up on him anyway. "Commander, I'll take this one."

Pike parked the car, got out, and strode up to the cadet, who was clearly far too busy exploring the woman's mouth with his tongue to notice the senior officer standing five feet from him until Pike cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, cadet, but unless you're looking for a world of trouble, you're looking in the wrong place."

The cadet jumped away from the woman so fast that she almost stumbled to the ground. She protested, but looked quickly from Pike's glare of cold judgment to the cadet's look of shock, and said, "I think I'll just be going home now."

"Probably a wise decision, miss," Pike said, not taking his eyes from the cadet. He didn't look at the woman as she scurried off, instead watching the young man shrink under his scrutiny. "All your friends here with you?"

"Yes… yes, Captain." He stammered.

"Good." Pike looked back over his shoulder; Toland was standing a couple of meters away, already glaring coldly at the cadet. "Commander, I'll go inside and clear them out. Once we've got them collected, call for a ground shuttle."

"Yes, Sir."

Pike looked back at the quivering young man. "Cadet, you go stand by that vehicle with the Commander and start practicing your best apologies, unless you want to see your appointment to the Academy vanish like your date."

The cadet choked out a quick, "Yes, sir!" However, as he hurried off towards Pike's car, Pike caught the unmistakable sound of a fight coming from inside the bar. He braced himself. This was _not_ how he wanted to spend the night, and he could only hope that it wasn't the cadets causing the ruckus.

As he stepped into the bar, however, any such hope vanished. Over the heads of the thick crowd of mixed civilians and cadets, he could see young men in red uniforms turning a local townie into a punching bag. He shoved his way through the crowd and finally got through the door into the main room of the bar. For a moment, he was almost too stunned by the violence of the fight to react, but when one cadet slammed the civilian kid onto a table and began making short work of his face, the feeling of surprise was rapidly overtaken by anger. Yelling over this sort of noise wouldn't work, so he stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle that pierced the cacophony.

The bar went deadly silent, except for the pained groan of the kid on the table.

Pike glared. "Outside. All of you. _Now_."

There was a mad scramble as everyone rushed to clear the bar – cadets and locals alike. The only person who didn't move was the young man on the table, head and limbs dangling awkwardly. He tilted his head backwards just enough to get a look at Pike. The blood was dripping down his nose, and his face was already turning into a mess of bruises, but when he spoke, he almost sounded amused. "You can whistle really loud, you know that?"

For a fraction of a second, Pike swore the kid looked familiar, but then he coughed – choking on his own blood – and the familiarity took second priority to practicality. Pike shook his head as he walked over, took the kid by the hand, and hauled him off the table.

"Thanks, man. I… uh… whoa." He stumbled a bit, and Pike helped ease him onto the floor.

"Here son, sit down for a minute. Do you need a medic?"

The young man shook his head dizzily. "Nah… no, just… hand me a napkin, would you?"

Pike handed the guy a few napkins from the bar, told him to stay there for a moment – it didn't look like the kid was going to be moving anytime soon, really – and went outside to make sure Toland had accounted for all of the cadets. When he got there, the Commander was already verbally ripping them to shreds.

"– and didn't bother to report back in," she snapped sharply, holding twelve of them at rapt attention. A thirteenth was sitting on the ground with his back against the vehicle, nursing a pretty severe facial laceration. "All of you may be facing disciplinary actions, and you haven't even arrived at the Academy yet. In case you've forgotten, an appointment to Starfleet Academy is an elite privilege, and that privilege can be revoked."

Pike stood beside Toland, and she stopped, deferring to him. "Who was involved in the brawl?" Nobody moved. "You attacked a _civilian_. Right now, I'd be just as happy to write up the whole gang of you with full responsibility. So own up, or the first lesson you get about integrity in Starfleet may be your last."

Three cadets stepped forward, and the one on the ground held up the hand that wasn't clenched across his bleeding face. Pike grimaced. "Commander, write up these cadets. I'm going to go get the whole story from the barkeep. Send everyone back to the barracks in the ground transport. Assign one of the Shipyard security personnel to watch the barracks, but I don't think these kids are going to be stupid enough to try anything else tonight." He nodded towards the one on the ground. "Then take this one to the local med clinic to get him patched up."

"Aye, Captain," she said firmly.

She was already barking out instructions as Pike turned and walked back into the bar. The civilian kid was gone. Frowning, Pike sidled up onto one of the barstools in the now-empty bar and signaled the barkeep. "Did that young man leave?"

The man stepped over, rubbing down the bar with a cloth as he went. "Nah, he just went to the bathroom. Think he needed to puke."

Pike looked up at the ceiling, feeling as if he were asking for divine intervention. _Lovely_. "I'll need to make a full report on this for Starfleet. Can you confirm who started the fight?"

"Sorry to say, but it was your boys who threw the first punch, although Kirk has a bit of a reputation for getting into shit around here. Doesn't usually start fights, but he's finished a few."

"Kirk?" Pike quirked an eyebrow. Common enough name, but… the kid had looked familiar. "Do you know his full name?"

The barkeep actually chuckled. "Yep. 'Round here, we all do. That's Jim Kirk. James T., as he likes to tell everyone. And yeah, he is who you think he is. Probably the reason he's got so many issues." The guy shrugged. "But at least he tips well."

Pike nodded, feeling like the universe was getting an even bigger laugh at his expense than he could have possibly predicted for the evening. Pulling out his pocket datapad, he tapped in Kirk's name and pulled up his file. A couple of minutes later, Pike had seen enough. He waved the barkeep over and held out his ID card. "For the damages," he said. "And for any drinks we order once I've dragged that kid back out of the bathroom."

The barkeep nodded, tapped the card against the credit reader, and handed it back to Pike. "Good luck."

With an off-hand nod, Pike slid off the bar stool and followed the signs on the wall that pointed the way to the restrooms.

Pike saw one of Kirk's sneakers sticking out from one of the stalls a moment before he heard the toilet flush, followed by a couple of weak coughs. Squaring his shoulders, Pike walked down the line of stalls and stopped in front of the one where Kirk was sitting on the floor. No, "sitting" was probably the wrong word. He was sprawled, leaning against the stall divider, one leg sticking out into the aisle and one bent up, bracing him. The blood from his nose had already soaked through the rolled up bits of napkin he'd stuffed there, and was dripping onto his shirt.

"You probably ought to have someone look at that nose," Pike said evenly.

Kirk coughed out a laugh. "No thanks. I already set it myself." He grabbed the end of the toilet paper roll in front of him, pulled off a long piece, and began rolling it. "I'll be fine."

Pike couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Really now."

"I take care of myself." Kirk pulled one of the blood-soaked bits of napkin from his nose and dropped it in the toilet, replacing it quickly with the fresh piece of toilet paper, but not before another thick stream of blood trickled down. Kirk absently licked his lip as be began rolling another piece of clean toilet paper. "I said I'm fine." His tone clearly finished the sentiment, _so go away_.

Pike could only shake his head. "If you're fine, then I need to get a statement from you so I can issue my report."

He glared, looking defensive. "Why? Your cadets started it."

It was all Pike could do not to roll his eyes. "I'm not reporting _you_, I'm reporting _them._ I'm Captain Pike…" He hesitated, then pressed forwards. "Commandant of Cadets at Starfleet Academy. My cadets attacked a civilian, and I need information."

For a moment, Kirk considered him, but just shook his head. "No."

"Just 'no'?"

"You heard me. Not interested." He pulled out the other saturated piece of napkin from his nose, sniffling slightly.

"Let me buy you a beer for your trouble."

Kirk wedged the second bit of clean paper into his nostril and gave Pike a skeptical, if not outright cynical look. "Buy me a beer?" He awkwardly hauled himself to his feet, using the toilet for leverage, then folded his arms over his chest defensively. "Why? You think I might raise a stink over your cadets so you need to placate me with booze?"

Pike shook his head, almost helplessly. "No, son, you just look like a man who's had a rough evening and could use a drink. It'll only take a few minutes for me to get the information I need, and you could probably use a few more minutes to recover before you go anywhere."

"I don't need a few minutes, and I don't need to report them. Do whatever it is you do with your official reports on your cadets, but leave me out of it. And don't call me 'son.'" He snorted incredulously, then winced before glaring back darkly. "I'm nobody's son."

With that, he pushed past Pike and started walking out of the bathroom.

Pike spun around. _Damn._ "You are."

Kirk had stopped cold, but didn't look back, "I am… _what_?"

"Someone's son, James Kirk."

The muscles under Kirk's t-shirt bunched up, but he didn't say anything.

"Listen, I can either call the local police to get the report I need, which will become a hassle of extra paperwork and civilian law enforcement, or I can buy you a beer, let you sit down for a few minutes, and give you a chance to incriminate the guys who started it."

Slowly, Kirk reached up and leaned one hand against the door frame, but his back remained so rigidly upright that it looked ready to snap. He turned around, regarding Pike narrowly out of his less-swollen eye. Finally, he said flatly, "Call me Jim."

Without another word, but with the implied invitation for Pike to follow, Kirk walked back out into the main room of the bar. He grabbed one of the chairs that had been pushed to the side of the room and dragged it to a table. He waved for a beer from the barkeep as he sat down heavily, and looked up at Pike. "What do you need to know?"

Pike looked at him for a long moment, grabbed a chair, and sat down.

(Continued...)


	2. Chapter 2

Janice Toland's only regret about Cadet Hudson's head injury was that it hadn't knocked him out. They were in the small, beige-toned waiting room of the Riverside Urgent Care clinic. The shipyard medical facility was only staffed during duty hours, and the nearest real hospital was the county facility, which was over forty miles away. Dull music droned in the background, overlaid by the occasional beeps and clicks of medical equipment beyond the clinic door and the incessant whining from Cadet Hudson.

"I still can't believe that guy hit me with a liquor bottle," he groaned into the towel he had pressed to his cheek and forehead. "My head hurts."

"If your head hurts, Cadet, it would make sense for you to stop talking."

"What's taking this doctor so long?" he droned on, clearly not listening. "It's going to scar if we wait too long."

"Maybe he has patients who are actually in need of real emergency medical attention for life-threatening reasons," Toland bit out tersely, not really caring to listen to Hudson, much less respond to him. "The nurse triaged you, and you're not critical."

"Any real emergency would go to a real hospital," Hudson mumbled. "Hell, a doctor working in a place like this, it'll probably scar anyway."

Toland clenched her jaw and took in a long, slow breath before turning and looking at the cadet. "And you would certainly deserve it."

Hudson glanced up, looking supremely insulted. "What? I'd deserve permanent disfigurement?"

Toland finally had enough. She pulled herself out of her chair and whirled on Hudson, glaring down at him angrily. "Cadet, let me explain something to you in no uncertain terms. Today was your first day in the uniform of a Starfleet cadet, and you demonstrated quite clearly that you don't deserve to wear it. If this is the sort of behaviour we can expect out of you, I can't foresee a time when you'd deserve the uniform of an actual Starfleet officer."

Hudson had gone a few shades paler, looking up with the towel pressed only loosely to his head. "I… we just had a few drinks and –"

"You _could_ have just had a few drinks and still come back in time for curfew and perhaps none of us would be the wiser. This is _not_ shore-leave, Cadet. This was an unplanned stop due to unforeseen circumstances, and the Academy was generous enough to authorize you some free time instead of issuing ration packs in the barracks. But what do you do with that generosity?" She leaned down and stared at him eye to eye, satisfied to see him flinch at her glare. "You missed curfew, you _made a mockery of the uniform_, and you attacked a local, small-town civilian!"

She stood back at her full height, hands on her hips. "It seems only fair that you would be subject to the medical treatment of a local, small-town doctor. If that results in a permanent facial scar, then I would consider that to be one of the few times the universe actually balances the consequence to the action that caused it. After tonight, you'll be lucky if you still have a career left, much less a pretty face."

Hudson's mouth was hanging open, but then he snapped it shut. He looked at the floor, thoroughly chastised. "Yes, Ma'am."

Toland gave him a sharp nod, then turned and sat back down in her chair. It was late – almost 0100 hours – and she had to admit that she was pretty damned exhausted. They'd been sitting in the waiting room for almost an hour and a half, most of which had been spent listening to random groaning from cadet Hudson.

However, he was finally silent, much to Toland's relief, leaving nothing but the dull music and sounds of the clinic to fill the silence of the waiting room. She sat back in the chair and looked straight across the room at the far wall, wishing the doctor would finish with whatever was taking so long. She just wanted to get back to the barracks, check on the other cadets, and maybe get a few hours of sleep before the shuttle departure in the morning.

Only moments later, voices and footsteps approached the doors to the treatment area, and they slid open to reveal a middle-aged man in street clothes, and the gruffest looking physician Toland had ever seen. He was carrying his scrub jacket over one arm instead of wearing it, and had a messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, but it was clear that he was the physician from the way he was lecturing the patient as they walked.

"You take those antibiotics every four hours for the next two days, and every eight hours after that until they're gone."

"That many?" the man asked unhappily, looking at the pill bottle in his hand.

"Do you have any idea what a ruptured appendix releases into your abdominal cavity? Good god, man, if you'd come an hour later, you'd be on life support now, if you were that lucky. This clinic normally can't handle that sort of emergency. I cleared out what I could, but there's only so much I can do with the equipment in this place. A few pills should be the least of your complaints." The doctor looked up at the ceiling as if begging for mercy. "Why the hell did you wait so long anyway?"

"Don't much like doctors." He stuck out his bottom lip, then shrugged. "But you're not bad. Ain't seen you here before. Got space for a new patient on your regulars list?"

The doctor shook his head, his expression darkening. "No regulars, Mr. Daniels. Rural Doctors program. Temporary assignments only."

"Huh," the guy tipped his head. "Too bad. Thanks for the help, Doc."

The doctor nodded. "You're welcome. Now don't mess up my good work there."

Mr. Daniels tossed a mock salute and strolled out the exit door, leaving the waiting room empty except for the receptionist, Toland, Cadet Hudson, and the doctor. The doctor watched him go, then began walking towards the door himself when he noticed that the waiting room wasn't empty. He looked back and forth between the door and Hudson a couple of times, then rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. With a sharp pivot on his heel, he hefted his bag and walked directly up to them.

"How long have you folks been waiting?" he asked as he made a quick visual assessment of the cadet's injury, pulling back the towel just enough to get a look at the lacerations.

"About an hour and a half," Toland said simply.

He nodded an acknowledgment, still looking over Hudson. "Sorry about that. We had an emergency that couldn't wait, and Doctor Larson is in with another patient." He turned to Toland and addressed her directly. "I thought you folks out at the shipyard had your own clinic."

Toland stood, strangely relieved by the doctor's bluntness. "They do, but it's only opened during working hours, and he wasn't injured on duty."

The doctor raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "I guessed that much by the smell. Did he drink that whiskey or take a bath in it?"

"Probably some of both," Toland said succinctly.

Cadet Hudson groaned without looking up. "I didn't drink it. I only had one beer. This isn't my fault."

"Uh-huh," the doctor said, then stuck out his hand towards Toland in the manner of a greeting. "Doctor McCoy."

She shook his hand briefly, wondering why his name sounded familiar. "Lieutenant Commander Toland. And the cadet who earned his own consequences is Michael Hudson."

The eyebrow raised again as McCoy shot a curious look at the Cadet.

Hudson pulled the towel away from his face just enough to look up at Doctor McCoy. "I didn't do anything to deserve this," he grumbled petulantly. "I was just backing up the other guys. What if this leaves a scar? Who the hell deserves a permanent –"

"We get the idea, kid," McCoy cut him off bluntly, then jerked his head to indicate for them to follow him. "Come with me."

Hudson groaned as he stood, but followed obediently without another word. McCoy dropped his bag behind the desk in the middle of the exam and treatment area, and shrugged on his scrub jacket as he led them to a bay and closed the curtain behind them.

"Have a seat, Hudson. No, on the biobed, not the chair. Cadet, huh?" McCoy said as he grabbed a tricorder and began scanning. "I've only been here for three weeks, but I know a shipyard isn't where they put cadets."

"It's not," Toland answered. "New recruit transport shuttle had a malfunction this morning, and we had to put down halfway through the trip to San Francisco. The replacement shuttle departs in the morning."

"Hmmm," he growled, studied the scan results, and put down the tricorder. From there, he turned and began rummaging in cabinets and collecting supplies as he spoke. "Knew those shuttles were dangerous. Never figured out what was so smart about launching folks into space with nothing but a glorified tin can for protection." He snapped a vial into a hypospray and glanced back at Toland. "So how did the injury occur?"

"This local guy was trying to get cozy with one of the female cadets," Hudson grumbled, "so we told him to back off, but he started a fight and broke a liquor bottle over my head. I mean, who does that? Of all the ridiculous –"

"I was asking the officer," McCoy said firmly. "I want to know what actually happened."

The doctor might be a little bit gruff, but he was entertaining, and it was better than listening to Hudson whine. "Instead of coming back on time for curfew," Toland began, "he and a bunch of his fellow recruits decided to go on a jaunt to the Shipyard Bar. The cadets started a brawl against one local man who turned out to be rather resourceful with a liquor bottle. Considering the fact that he had four Starfleet cadets attacking him at once, I'd say it was a good move on his part." To her satisfaction, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hudson wince.

Doctor McCoy turned back towards her, holding a tray of implements and wearing an odd expression of both approval and irritation. "Well, that would explain why he reeks of hard liquor but only has a zero-point-three blood alcohol content. Did anyone else get injured? What about the civilian guy?" he grumbled as he set the tray down on the table next to the biobed. "I haven't seen anyone else around here who looked like he'd been in a fight, and this is the only clinic in this one-horse town."

"None of the other cadets had more than bruises. Never saw the civilian," Toland said. "If he was injured, I'm certain that Captain Pike would ensure that he got treatment if necessary."

"I'd hope so," McCoy said neutrally. He picked up a hypospray and calibrated it. "Lie down, kid."

For the first time, Cadet Hudson's expression of irritation and disdain morphed into worry, bordering on fear. "Wait. First, can you tell me how bad it looks? Is it going to scar? I just started at the Academy. I don't want a scar. And what's in the hypospray?"

If anything, McCoy looked almost incredulous, and just a little bit offended. "It's a painkiller, tough guy, and you've barely got a scratch. And I don't leave scars when I work. Now lie down before I decide you're feeling peachy enough to do without a painkiller."

Looking even more frantic, as if he wasn't sure whether this doctor was really going to begin working without a painkiller, Hudson nodded and quickly laid back on the biobed. Unceremoniously, McCoy pressed the hypospray to the Cadet's neck and activated it, which drew a sharp grunt of discomfort. "Ouch! Damn, that stung! Small-town clinics and… hey, what was in… in that… whoa…"

Hudson's eyes flickered and closed, and McCoy actually smiled as he looked up at Toland. "Now I figure I can get some work done."

Toland looked back at him, allowed herself a small grin, and decided she could respect this Doctor McCoy. She touched her forehead in the manner of a salute, then stood back to give him space to work. Vaguely, she wondered if there were regulations against using sedatives like that on obnoxious cadets without a license to practice medicine.

McCoy immediately settled into his work, running a sterilization unit over the wound and cleaning away the dried blood. "He doesn't have a concussion," he said as he worked, "so you don't have to worry about that. It's a bit more than a scratch, but it's all superficial. The kid has a hard head."

"Perhaps a thick head," Toland said lightly.

McCoy actually snorted. "I take it you're not pleased with him and his buddies?"

"Good assumption. I should have been asleep hours ago, and instead I had to go chasing a gaggle of brand new recruits around Riverside, Iowa."

"Such a lovely town. You should take the full tour. Lasts about twenty-five minutes, including the coffee stop and bathroom break."

At that, Toland couldn't stop the amused smirk that pulled the corner of her mouth. "Sounds like you love it here."

McCoy didn't respond immediately as he extracted a small piece of glass from one of the lacerations. He looked at it critically before dropping it onto the tray, then picked up another piece of equipment. His face was the picture of absolute focus as he held the device over Hudson's forehead and activated a light blue beam. The device hummed softly, and McCoy spoke in a low tone.

"Don't have much time to love it or hate it. I'm here to work."

Toland would have replied, but she figured it was time to let the doctor put all of his attention into his work. And she watched him as he did. She'd seen some emergency medicine, and although she hardly had a clue about actual medical procedures, she knew skill when she saw it. McCoy's hands were steady and sure, and he worked with absolute focus and precision, changing out pieces of equipment confidently, never taking his eyes off Hudson's face.

The lacerations knit together, one by one. Delicate facial muscle pulled back together, connective tissue re-adhered to dermal layers, and skin fused into a cohesive surface, leaving nothing but a light pink line where a grotesque view of raw flesh had been visible only moments before.

Finally, McCoy leaned back and grabbed a standard tissue regenerator, placed it over the area where the damage had been the worst, and activated it. "There. We'll give it about ten minutes to let the cellular structures stabilize, and he'll be good as new. Or good as he was before his adventure tonight."

Toland just looked at McCoy for a long moment, unable to formulate what she wanted to express.

McCoy frowned. "What?"

"What are you doing here?" It came out rough and blunt, but there it was.

The frown became a defensive scowl. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm a doctor, and I'm working at a clinic."

She shook her head, almost sorry for how that had sounded, but too flabbergasted to apologize. "No, I mean what the hell is a surgeon with your level of skill doing in a backwater clinic in Riverside, Iowa?"

The defensive scowl didn't disappear, but it suddenly took on a darker tone. "Like I said, I'm working."

"Doctor McCoy," she said firmly, "I recognize skill when I see it. You said you're working with the Rural Doctors program. I've heard of that program. It's like working for a temp agency."

"It _is_ a temp agency, but what of it?" He didn't seem happy with that. "Listen, I've been on-shift for almost fourteen hours now. As soon as your cadet is patched up, I'll wake him up, and you can leave."

She shook her head. "Let me ask you again: what is a doctor of your skill level doing here?"

He glared at her, almost demanding that she give up and back down, but she met his challenge and held his gaze until he finally gave up with a huff.

"I wore out my welcome at the research hospital back home," he growled low in his throat, looking to the side and folding his arms defensively around his stomach.

Toland studied his face for a moment, then suddenly realized why this guy's name had sounded familiar. She'd heard about his story in the news. She had seen this doctor's picture on the holovids, although he looked a bit scruffier and more careworn now. His father had been critically ill, and he'd helped his old man die. The media had turned it into a field day about the right to die, euthanasia, the Hippocratic Oath, and artificial life support. The man at the center of the three-ring show had been described as a rising star in the world of research medicine before that had happened. Toland couldn't stop her eyes from widening just a bit. "Leonard McCoy," she said, unable to quite hide the surprise in her voice. "I heard about you."

"Oh great," he bit out. "I do what I can to escape that mess, but clearly it doesn't do much good. I've been assigned to random clinics in the most remote or obscure backwater places around this country for the past six months, and that fiasco still follows me." He turned to his tray of equipment and began cleaning up, rolling up the absorbent mat and tossing the bloody glass and gauze into the biohazard slot. "Listen, all you've gotta know is that I didn't lose my license, but I lost everything else. They had a fine time dragging my name through the mud for the sake of a damned philosophical debate. Didn't matter that my work was good. Didn't matter that I was at the cutting edge of research and the best surgeon they had. Didn't matter that my father had written out his dying request, including the fact that if I didn't help him, he would have done it himself. No place would hire me. My wife – _ex-wife_ made sure of that."

Toland glanced down at the doctor's left hand. There was no ring, but there was a lighter stripe of skin on his left ring finger; the ring had clearly been removed recently. She looked up to see that McCoy was observing her coolly. She tilted her head towards his hand. "Divorce finalized within the past week, was it?"

"Gee, you're observant," McCoy said flatly. He picked up the tray with the remaining equipment and brought it over to the sonic sterilizer. "Yeah. Two days ago. Don't know why I kept the ring on until it was official, but hey, at least I keep my oaths. I'd like to think that still means something. And what do I have left to show for it?" He finished loading the equipment into the sterilizer and turned back, leaning against the countertop. He folded his arms over his chest, hypospray held in his right hand, and gestured around the treatment room with the hypospray. "This. This is what I've got."

Toland just looked at him, silently sympathizing. No pity – she didn't believe in insulting people with pity, and McCoy didn't look like the sort of man who would want it – but understanding.

McCoy must have seen something of that understanding in her face, because he nodded, warily but honestly. "Yeah. She got the house, the kid, my career – the whole damned planet. Kept thinking I'd at least get something out of it, maybe have something to go home to eventually, but with the media coverage and her lawyer connections, she took it all. But hey, at least she was generous enough to write the communiqué herself to let me know that I might as well launch myself into orbit because there's nothing left for me on this goddamned rock." He unfolded his arms and walked over to the biobed. He leaned over and checked the tissue regenerator on Hudson's face, surveying the progress intently for a moment, then nodding to himself. He stood upright and looked sideways at Toland.

"So you wanted to know what a surgeon and research doctor like me is doing out in Riverside, Iowa?" McCoy's voice was a harsh growl. "I'm a doctor, and that's all I got left, so I'm doing what doctors do. I'm healing people. That man who left just before you got here would have died if some back-woods, small-town physician had been working here tonight. Your cadet would have that permanent facial scar that he probably deserves. Someone has to be better than that. That's what I'm doing."

"You're wasting your skills," Toland said flatly.

"Tell that to Mr. Daniels," he snapped. "The guy thought he'd eaten some bad leftovers, and by the time he stumbled in here, his appendix had already burst. None of the normal doctors in this clinic are surgeons, so they would have tried to send him to the county hospital, and I can guarantee you that he would have died in transit."

Toland furrowed her eyebrows. "You saved one man, but you're never going to be satisfied with that because you can do better, and I can see that. You're too good for this."

"No shit. But I don't exactly have a world of options anymore, ma'am." He gave a tip of his head. "So, with all due respect, I'll get back to saving folks around here for the rest of this week, and next week, I'll go wherever they send me and do the same there."

"You could have your own research lab in Starfleet." It was out of her mouth before she'd even realized she said it.

McCoy's mouth fell open, and for a moment, she wasn't sure if he was going to laugh at her or snarl at her. Finally he shook his head as if to clear something out of his ears and barked out an incredulous, "_What?_"

For a moment, Toland considered biting her tongue, but she'd already said it, and really, it made sense. Starfleet had been trying desperately to recruit top-notch doctors, but lately, the best of the best were only interested in civilian practice. Plenty of second-string medical professionals were still applying, but Starfleet needed better than that. You couldn't send people into space without the best medical support possible. This McCoy was a piece of work, but… skill like that? Yeah, Starfleet could use a pair of steady hands in a sickbay on a ship, on a space station, or anywhere.

She squared her body towards him and folded her arms across her chest to mirror his pose. "You want a chance to use those skills the way they were meant to be used? Starfleet has the best medical facilities available, on the planet or off of it. The best research, the best equipment. We need the best doctors to go with it. They've got folks who really _will_ die without someone as skilled as you on hand. And I can tell you that they don't much care about your media image." She nodded at his dumbstruck expression. "With a doctorate degree, you'd graduate from Starfleet Academy as a full Lieutenant. Work in research or teach while you're there, and you could even make Lieutenant Commander."

He was still staring at her, open-mouthed, when the timer on the tissue regenerator beeped. McCoy shook his head to himself as he turned his attention back to Hudson. His hands worked deftly, removing the regenerator unit and setting it aside, then grabbing the tricorder for a scan. For a long moment, he studied the readout on the tricorder screen, appearing as if he hadn't heard a word that Toland had said. Then suddenly, he said, "You're out of your mind.

"You'd be out of your mind to keep doing this," she shot back.

McCoy snorted as he put the tricorder aside and reached for the cabinet. He pulled out a vial of light green liquid, snapped it into the hypospray as he stepped back to the biobed, and unceremoniously pressed it against Cadet Hudson's neck. A moment later, Hudson's delirious eyes were blinking open.

"Whoa… what… oh shit."

"Watch your language, Cadet," Toland snapped automatically.

Hudson flinched. "I… sorry, ma'am." He reached up towards his face, but hesitated.

McCoy blew out a breath in exasperation. "Your face is fine, Hudson. No sign that you ever tried to gang up on an unarmed civilian." He reached out and grabbed Hudson's hand, pulling him upright on the biobed. "There was no nerve damage, and if you have a headache, it's only because you dehydrated yourself with cheap liquor."

"Thank you, Sir." He slid off the biobed, looking thoroughly chastised.

McCoy nodded, finally showing a hint of sympathy. He patted the cadet on the shoulder. "You'll be fine, kid. Just next time… don't do something so stupid. If you're going into Starfleet, that might be a good lesson to learn. That way, maybe you won't give their doctors such a hard time. I'm sure those Starfleet doctors have more serious and interesting medical challenges occupying their time than patching up busted crowns."

Toland was moderately impressed to note that it actually looked like Hudson was listening. The cadet nodded. "Yes, Sir," he said, quietly. "Do I need to follow up with a doctor when I get to the Academy?"

Before McCoy could speak, Toland cut in. "Hudson, there's not a doctor at the Academy who could do a better job than Doctor McCoy did for you." She was speaking to Hudson, but looking at McCoy.

The doctor merely raised an eyebrow at her. She furrowed her eyebrows at him in return.

"Cadet," she said, "go to the waiting room. I'll be right there."

Hudson seemed confused, but quickly left the room.

Toland faced McCoy squarely. "I'm not going to insult you with a high and mighty pep talk. You've got an attitude, and you might not be Starfleet material, but I think you could be. And you know you're never going to be satisfied with this." She gestured around the room with a wave. "There's a transport shuttle heading for the Academy from the shipyard tomorrow morning at 0800 hours. It's not full. I'll clear your name at the security gate if you come to your senses and realize the opportunity that this could be for you."

He studied her for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes. "I don't like flying."

She shrugged. "I don't like doctors."

They stared at each other for a long moment, then McCoy stuck his hand out. "I appreciate the conversation," he said simply.

"Thank you for patching up our cadet." She shook his hand briefly, then turned on her heel and walked out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Leonard watched her leave. His stomach felt tight and hollow at once, and he was grateful that his shift was over because there was no way he could handle seeing another patient that night. He was numb and detached, because if he wasn't, he would seriously be considering the goddamned asinine suggestion that the snippy little Starfleet officer had thrown at him.

That was a lark. _Leonard-fucking-McCoy on a Starfleet shuttlecraft. Leonard-aviaphobic-McCoy on a spaceship. Leonard Horatio McCoy in a Starfleet uniform_.

He blinked.

_Doctor Leonard H. McCoy in the finest medical facility in the solar system, discovering new cures, saving lives, and having a goddamned future again._

He swallowed thickly as he pushed past the curtain of the treatment bay, trying not to think. Doctor Larson, the duty doctor who was taking the next shift, had arrived during Mr. Daniels' appendectomy. She had already been working the woman with second-degree burns when Leonard had finished up the surgery, so he hadn't had a chance to review the day's charts with her, and now, he just didn't have the energy to do it. She was already standing at the desk in the center of the clinic when Leonard got there, looking over charts from the past fourteen hours. She glanced up at him, and immediately frowned.

"You look like shit, McCoy."

He looked at her, but had nothing to say, so he just shook his head as he reached behind the desk for his bag.

"Hey. _Hey_." She stepped in front of him. "What the hell got into you? Rough shift?"

Leonard laughed drily. "Yeah, something like that." He swung the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"Did you really manage an appendectomy with the equipment we've got here?" She sounded quite impressed.

"I'm a surgeon," he grumbled. "What was I gonna do? Let the guy die in front of me?"

"Well, still… nice work."

"Thanks," he said, not really meaning it. "Hey Larson, how many more days until Howard gets back from his family leave?"

She shrugged. "Could be within the next three days, but could be as long as another six. Why? Did the agency contact you with another assignment already? Or something with your family back home?"

He gave her _The Look_.

"Okay, okay, sorry." She held her hands up in mock-surrender. "Won't mention the family. Oh wait – shit! Did the divorce come through?"

"Yeah, it did." Leonard growled, then reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Julie…" He hesitated, then shook his head. "What's the status on Mrs. Kenneth's burns?"

"First- and second-degree burns localized to the left thigh and lower abdomen. Healed up nicely," she said clinically. "I told her to consider drinking iced coffee instead. Nurse Peterson is finishing up with some nerve stim and dermagel dressing, and she should be ready to discharge in a little while."

"Sounds good," Leonard said gruffly. "I left some dermal fusion equipment in the sonic sterilizer in bay two. Everything else is normal. I just need to get the hell out of here."

Doctor Larson nodded. "Sounds good. And Leonard?"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You get some rest, okay?"

He pressed his lips into a grimace. "Aye-aye, Captain."

Leonard stepped out into darkness of the wee hours. A vehicle with Starfleet tags was just pulling out of the parking lot. He watched it shrink as it moved away down the long, empty street that ran through the middle of downtown Riverside. It was hard to call it a downtown. Leonard was quite convinced that the place hadn't changed since the twenty-first century. At 2:00 AM, the main street was deserted, the lights in the store fronts were off, and if it weren't for the bright glow of the shipyard in the distance and the outlines of the massive corn silos and residence constructs blocking out parts of the night sky, he could have imagined that he'd stepped into something out of the past. Or maybe just stuck in the past.

The car's tail lights finally disappeared as it turned onto the side road that would take it towards the shipyards. Shaking his head to himself, Leonard shifted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, turned away from the lights of the shipyard, and began walking towards the seedy apartment that the Rural Doctors program had furnished for him.

There was an unseasonable chill in the air, and he pulled his scrub coat closer around his stomach. It was a short walk of five blocks, then two flights of stairs. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and went straight to the bathroom, stripping off his scrubs as he walked. The shower did little to ease the chill that had settled into his bones, but he just stood there anyway, letting the hot water pour over him as he did what he could to avoid thinking.

When he knew he'd wasted enough hot water, he wrapped a bathrobe around himself and stumbled to the kitchenette. There was just enough food in the fridge to cobble together a turkey sandwich to go with the liquor that was still sitting on the coffee table. In the living room, he put his feet up next to the bottle and took a bite of his dry sandwich, barely tasting it as he blankly looked around the room.

The apartment was small but adequate, and smelled like all the others he'd stayed in since he'd left Georgia just over half a year earlier. He'd lost count of how many places he'd stayed, but it didn't matter. They were all the same. A bit too old and a bit too stale – an uncomfortable incongruity of harsh sterility that was never quite clean. Never comfortable, and never home.

He'd never go home again.

He'd been on-shift almost nonstop since he'd received the official heavy hammer of the divorce settlement, and so he'd been able to avoid thinking about it. Not that he'd ever consider going back to his wife – _ex-wife, Leonard. She's your goddamned ex-wife_ – after what she'd done to him, but to see it spelled out in black and white on the computer screen made it real. Now, he had nothing left to distract him, and the reality of it was like a cold slap across the face. He really had nothing left at all.

The Rural Doctors program was little more than a volunteer program, really. Somewhere between volunteer work and temping, it kept a roof over his head and just enough credits to his name for a mediocre bottle of bourbon once a week. A lot of docs who'd barely gotten their licenses volunteered for Rural Doctors directly out of med school as a way to get more experience and pad their resumes with some heart-warming charity. He was so far beyond this sort of work it wasn't even funny, but he'd figured it would be something to do until the divorce was final. From there, he'd figured, he could take stock of what remained to him, and try to move forward.

_How the hell am I supposed to move forward when my past is gone?_

Somehow, he finished eating the sandwich without really noticing, but as he went to take a swig of bourbon directly from the bottle, the idea of drinking in his dingy, dead-end apartment seemed incomprehensible. Even with all the lights on, the place seemed cramped and dark – even darker than the night. At least outdoors, he could see the stars. He'd loved to stargaze as a child; the feel of the solid earth beneath his back as he watched the stars above his head had been comforting. He snorted cynically at the thought that his childhood pastime might be the only luxury he'd have left in life.

_The bitch got the whole fucking planet, but I'll damned to hell if she'll take the stars._

He put the plate aside and lurched off the couch. A few minutes later, Leonard had tossed his bathrobe over the back of a chair and had pulled on a pair of jeans and an old, comfortable sweater. Remembering the chill in the air, he grabbed the closest thing to a cold-weather jacket he owned; he didn't plan to be back until dawn. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely wondered if he planned to be back at all, but he didn't even care to think that far ahead. He was exhausted, but sleep was unfathomable.

He shoved his feet into his boots without untying them. With one awkward swoop, he grabbed the liquor bottle off the coffee table and stuffed it into his messenger bag as slung the bag over his shoulder. If he was going to drink to everything he'd ever lost, he'd need a lot of good booze. Without a glance back, he pushed his way out the door and locked it behind him.

He didn't look up at the sky immediately when he stepped out of the building. No – he wanted to get to the edge of town where he could see the stars unobstructed, without the trappings of society in the way. Society had been yanked away from him, too; he had no place there, either.

He watched his own feet punctuate a line along the sidewalk, each boot falling heavily in front of the other, quick and sure with an almost surgical precision. He was going absolutely nowhere, but as long as he watched his feet move, and focused on each step, he could imagine that he still had some sort of sense of purpose. He was moving towards something, not just away from something, he told himself. It was bullshit, he knew, but he didn't much care.

The buildings fell away around him, and the sidewalk came to an abrupt end in a pile of gravel. He reached into his bag, grabbed his bottle, and with a deep breath, he looked up.

"What the… goddammit!"

The stars were there, but paled against the bright splotch of light on the near horizon. The shipyards. The goddamned fucking shipyards! The one thing he had left – his solitude, a bottle of bourbon, and the stars – and he couldn't even have that without…

He blinked. Stared at the bright glow of the shipyards, just five miles outside of town. Tilted his head to the side, considering the light, like some sort of perverse beacon. Slowly, he unscrewed the cap of his bottle, and without looking away from the lights of the shipyard, he took a swig. He tucked the bottle back in his bag, adjusted the shoulder strap more comfortably across his chest, and began walking.

The shipyards seemed so close through the night, but he knew how far they were. It didn't matter. He could walk all night. He had nowhere else to be. Finally, as the blackness of night showed the first faint hints of grey on the eastern horizon, Leonard stepped off the road and stared up at the massive structure of the half-built ship. He'd seen it when he'd first driven into town three weeks ago, but he hadn't really been paying attention at the time. It wasn't as if it mattered.

Now, for some strange reason, it mattered.

He sat down heavily on the ground, one knee bent and the other sticking straight out, and he stared. His hands found his bottle of bourbon, and he pulled it out of the bag.

_I lost my research grant and my career. _

He drank.

_I lost my home. _

He drank again.

_I lost my daughter._

He took a deep swig that burned sharply.

_I lost my wife._

Leonard looked at the bottle in his hands, but didn't drink. Slowly, he looked back and forth between the bottle and the ship. Scowling at himself and the universe at large, he said aloud, "What have I got to lose?"

He grabbed his comm from his bag and punched in the number for the clinic. A moment later, a voice that was only slightly familiar answered the phone.

"_Riverside Urgent Care, Patricia Donaldson speaking_."

"Patty, it's Doctor McCoy."

"_Doctor McCoy! Didn't you just get off shift less than five hours ago? Shouldn't you be asleep?_"

Leonard had to smile to himself. Patty had made it her business to watch out for the health of all the doctors and nurses who worked at the clinic, because (as she swore) doctors take care of everyone else while running their own health ragged. _"_Yes, Patty, I should be asleep. But listen… you're going to have to call someone else to take my next shift._"_

"_You're not sick, are you? I keep telling you, you're going to run yourself into an early grave the way you go, and your precious hyposprays can't cure everything."_

Chuckling, Leonard shook his head to himself. "No, I'm not sick. But… I'm not coming back. Doctor Howards should be back in a few days, and I'm only scheduled for two more shifts anyway. Can you… can you call the Rural Doctors liaison for the region and… tell them I quit."

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, before Patty's voice came through, sounding nervous. _"Doctor McCoy, are you okay? I heard that your divorce just came through, but… Leonard, you're okay, aren't you?"_

His throat tightened a little bit at the worry in her voice. He'd almost forgotten what it sounded like for someone to actually worry over him. "I'm fine, Patty. I'm fine, really. I… I actually got another job."

"_Really?_" She sounded both hopeful and incredulous at once.

He smiled weakly. "Yes, Patty. Really. Hey, tell everyone thanks for me. Oh, and tell Doctor Martinez that his neurostim technique is good, but he's gotta learn to cycle the magnetic resonance more smoothly with the patient's natural brainwaves."

"_Uh… what?_"

"Just tell everyone I said thanks."

"_Okay, Doctor McCoy. Thanks for helping us out here. Good luck in your new job."_

"Thanks, Patty." He closed the comm unit and looked up at the giant ship sitting in front of him. For the first time since he'd started walking towards the distant lights of the shipyards, he suddenly felt nervous. "Thanks," he said again, "I'm gonna need it."

He drank one last swig, capped the bottle, and hauled himself to his feet. The sky was marginally lighter now. Gritting his teeth, and wishing that lightning would strike and stop him from making such an impulsive, reckless, and fucking insane decision, he shouldered his bag and walked along the road towards the front gate of the shipyards. A couple of Starfleet-tagged vehicles drove past him towards the gate. One lone motorcycle zipped by in the other direction. Leonard kept walking, refusing to let himself think, because if he did, he'd turn around and run the other way.

Finally, the security gate was directly in front of him. The guard at the gate held out a hand. "ID, Sir?"

His tone was professional, but Leonard could read faces; the guy wasn't impressed with him – not that Leonard could really blame him. He hadn't shaved in two days, he smelled like bourbon, and he probably looked like shit. However, he might as well start this whole thing on the right foot. "Doctor Leonard H. McCoy, sir," he said as evenly as possible as he handed over his ID chip.

The guard barely spared him a glance as he ran the chip across the scanner. His ID signature instantly came up on the monitor, and the guard cross-referenced it with the shipyard clearance list. He actually looked surprised when a positive match came back. "There you are. Doctor Leonard H. McCoy. Cleared by Lieutenant Commander Toland… and Captain Pike?" He sounded even more surprised by that, not that Leonard had any idea why. When the guy looked up, he had a distinct note of respect in his voice. "Sir, you've been ordered to report to shuttle pad three by 0800 hours for departure. And…" He looked down. "We'll need to clear your bag."

Leonard gritted his teeth and handed the bag over, knowing before the guard had even pulled out the bottle that he was going to have to leave his small-batch, barrel-aged Kentucky bourbon behind.

"Sir, we can't –"

"I know, I know." His fingers itched for just one more swig – a toast to the sanity he was certainly leaving behind, and one last shot of liquid fortitude for the inevitable ride in the fucking lunatic-machine of a goddamned shuttlecraft because he was out of his ever-loving mind for even _thinking_ about letting them put him on a god-forsaken death-trap like that. "Just… give it to someone who will enjoy it."

"Uh… okay, sir." He handed back the almost-empty bag, but Leonard shook his head.

"I've got nothing, so leave it at that." He started to walk through the gate, but stopped short. "Uh… which way to the shuttle pad?"

The guard smiled humourlessly. "Follow that walkway, and where it branches, stay to the left. Another fifty meters to the cooling towers, and take a right. From there, you'll see the shuttlecraft."

Leonard nodded, turned, and began following the path, the word _shuttlecraft_ echoing in his mind. With each step, he could feel his heart pound a bit harder and his chest get a bit tighter. He'd had enough other shit burdening his over-exhausted mind that this hurdle in the ordeal hadn't really sunk in. Actually, none of this had quite sunk in, but that was beside the point. The burn of bourbon in his stomach hadn't reached his brain yet, and the fear of flying… well… it wasn't pleasant. Just not pleasant.

Okay, more than a little unpleasant; the prospect was fucking terrifying. But…

_I've got nothing else left. I'm going to do this. I've got nothing else. This will be good for me. I can do this. I can… oh fuck._

There was the shuttlepad, and there was the shuttle. Leonard hadn't been on a shuttle in years, and he'd rather not think about that, thank you very much. Until the past six months, he hadn't needed to travel much, and the high speed trains and ground cars worked just fine as far as he was concerned. But this time, if he wanted his one shot at a future, there would just be no avoiding it.

Swallowing against the sick feeling in his stomach, Leonard pulled his coat tighter to his body and stepped out onto the shuttle pads just as a familiar woman in a gray uniform stepped out of the shuttle and stood in front of the open door. She caught sight of Leonard and gave a solemn nod, but showed no outward signs of recognition until he was standing right in front of her.

"Decided to take the rational choice?"

Leonard took an unsteady breath, trying not to think about what he was about to do. "What choice?" he snorted. "It's either this or… well, I've got nothing else left, and compared to the alternative, this didn't seem like a completely ludicrous suggestion."

She gave him a self-satisfied nod. "Good to know. Welcome to Starfleet, Cadet McCoy."

Somehow, after being called "Doctor" for a few years, the title of "Cadet" didn't sit too easily. He forced a smile which probably looked more like a grimace, then walked past her and ducked through the door of the shuttlecraft.

Immediately, he felt his heart begin to pound frantically in his chest. The shuttle was still on the damned ground, but he could feel the rickety frame of it around him, like a cage that held him in but couldn't offer any protection, not really. Not nearly enough protection from the unforgiving vacuum of space that would suck the life from your body as it made blood vessels burst and body fluids boil. And _space_. He loved stars, but he'd read the medical journals and their reports on space travel. The diseases out there made Bubonic Plague seem positively pleasant. Human doctors had spend thousands of years trying to fight the onslaught of death and disease on this planet, and now, just when it seemed like they were starting to get the upper hand in the battle, the human race had to go and discover a galaxy full of more disease and death.

Why anyone would do this unless it was an absolute last resort was beyond his comprehension.

There were only a few cadets already in the shuttlecraft, and now that he'd taken a spare moment to notice, they were all giving him curious sideways glances. He glowered at a couple of them, and looked around rapidly for a seat that didn't face any windows. It only took him seconds to realize there weren't any.

Sure, right now, the windows showed the pleasant, early morning view of the shipyard in Iowa, but soon the shuttlecraft would lurch off the ground, would start to shudder in the lower-atmosphere turbulence, and eventually give him a front-row view of the deep indigo-blue of the upper atmosphere and the blackness outer space. He shuddered.

And then he saw the bathroom door.

Not caring what anyone else thought at that moment, he gathered his jacket around him and quickly ensconced himself in the latrine. _Thank God I'm not claustrophobic, too_, he thought acerbically. The small space felt a tiny bit safer, even though it was just an illusion. As long as nobody needed to piss during the flight, he could just hide in there, and if he needed to panic, at least nobody would see him. Seemed like a good solution.

Minutes passed. He could hear the echoes of boots on metal as more and more people filed into the shuttlecraft. The hollow echoes of the cage around him. This thin metal frame that was the only thing between him and explosive decompression. More minutes ticked by. His hands were shaking, and he could feel himself beginning to break out in a cold sweat. He wished he'd taken a few more swigs of liquor to calm his nerves, but it was too late for that now.

He wrapped his hands tight around his stomach, gripping the folds of his jacket. And then he felt something hard in one of his pockets.

Ever so briefly distracted from his panic, he reached into his jacket pocket, and felt a both a thrill of discovery and a pang of memory when he realized what it was, and why it was there. It had been the morning of his father's funeral, and he'd needed something to get him through the maelstrom. So, he'd taken the small pocket flask that his father had given him when he'd graduated med school and had filled it with his best bourbon. The funeral had been in the middle of December, and it was cold out, so he'd grabbed his warmest jacket and tucked the flask into the jacket pocket. It had been then that Jocelyn had come into the room wearing a black dress and the foul mood that had become her standard accessory. Upon seeing the dingy old jacket, she had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not be wearing that monstrosity to any formal event. She'd then grabbed his comfortable jacket away from him, and had forced him into a suit coat.

And now, almost nine months later, he had the melancholy comfort of both the bourbon and the gift his father had given him, as well as the jacket that his wife hated so much. A good deal, he figured. He unscrewed the cap and took a very tiny sip, letting the familiar taste help him more than the actual alcohol content. For what it was worth, he hoped it was some small sign that this might not be as horrible as he'd thought it might be.

And then someone pounded on the door.

In an instant, his eyes went wide and the panic set back in full-force. He scrambled to tuck the small flask back into his pocket and wished he could just disappear at that very moment.

The person pounded the door again, this time speaking through the door. "Cadet McCoy, are you ill?" There wasn't a trace of mercy in Commander Toland's voice; just the flat question, as unyielding as the metal of the bathroom wall behind his back.

"No, I… uh… needed to… uh…" He could feel his face breaking out in a cold sweat again, and a surge of nausea gripped his stomach.

"McCoy, according to Cadet Roper, you've been in the bathroom for almost a half hour. The shuttle is preparing to depart. Open the door immediately."

His heart was pounding, and he cursed himself for ever having thought this was a good idea. He was trapped and cornered in the goddamned bathroom of a goddamned shuttlecraft. Starfleet and space ships and shuttlecrafts and _why the hell would I do this to myself _and _because I've really got nothing else left._ For the briefest of instants, an ice-cold realization lanced through his chest – he hadn't planned to join Starfleet when he'd left his apartment, but he'd also never planned to return to his apartment, either. He was here, on the shuttlecraft, because the only other option had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. The realization shocked him and added to the surge of panic that was gripping him.

Toland rapped on the door again. "Cadet, respond immediately or I'll have an engineer override the lock."

"I'm fine in here." He pressed his back harder against the wall, shaking his head desperately to clear it, which only made him more queasy. "I just… I need to… oh goddammit." A surge of nausea twisted his gut and he spun around and leaned over the toilet, breathing rapidly.

"McCoy, if you're ill, we can get assistance for you, but you need to find a seat for departure. Do you need a doctor?"

Leonard swallowed a few times, fighting back the queasiness until it subsided enough to speak. He slammed the toilet shut, spun around, and sat on the lid. "I'm not sick, I don't need a doctor, and I'm fine in here."

"McCoy, unlock the door and go back to your seat."

The order was harsh and uncompromising, and Leonard muttered a few choice words for Toland under his breath before gritted his teeth and flipped the locking mechanism.

The door slid to the side and Toland stared down at him critically, then sniffed the air. "Did you drink the whiskey or take a bath in it?" She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him off the toilet, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Yeah, so I had a drink, and you would have, too. I'm nauseous, and the toilet is in _here_," he said, trying to wrest his arm out of her vice-like grip, "and I don't see why there's a problem with this arrangement."

"Because you need to strap into a safety harness for departure."

"Oh, a safety harness! That makes me feel so much safer."

"You're ill or drunk, and I don't care which, but we don't have time for games. Captain Pike is ready to launch, and you need to sit down."

"I _was_ sitting down. Right here." He tried to get his arm out of her grip again, and stumbled in the process.

Toland glared at him as she tightened her grip and pulled him out of the bathroom. "You need a doctor."

"I told you, I don't need a doctor, dammit, I am a doctor!"

She didn't even look at him as she dragged him back into the main shuttle cabin, ordering him to sit down. As the whole shuttle of neatly uniformed cadets stared at him, Leonard got the sinking feeling that he was so far up shit creek that a paddle was the least of his concerns.

(To be continued...)


	4. Chapter 4

Pike was almost done with his pre-flight diagnostics when he heard Toland's sharp voice cutting through the shuttlecraft, and he allowed himself a small grin. She certainly had a way of doing things, but it worked.

When she'd returned to the barracks that morning at almost 0300 hours, he was still awake and sitting on the front steps of the building, waiting and thinking. After his chat with Kirk, sleep had become a low priority, so he'd used the excuse of waiting up to ensure that Cadet Hudson's injuries had been well-tended. They were, and he hadn't expected otherwise.

By that hour, there was little reason to sleep, so he and Toland sent Hudson to his bunk and sat outside to debrief each other.

Toland had been more than a little bit surprised to learn the identity of the civilian that her cadets had attacked, and even more taken aback to hear that Pike had tried to talk him into joining Starfleet.

"Captain, with all due respect, I don't care who his father is," she'd argued. "Look at his record! He's got three misdemeanors and a pattern of anti-authoritative behavior."

"And his IQ tests and academic records are off the chart."

She'd scowled at him. "Brilliant and volatile can get even more people killed out there, Sir. A psych profile like that? Try getting him to learn to follow protocols. He's a loose cannon. Who's going to be responsible for him when he goes off?"

Pike had taken a long moment before answering, realizing the weight of what he was saying. "I guess it'll be me."

Toland had given him a skeptical look. "I had been under the impression that your tenure at the Academy was a temporary assignment until they gave you a new ship."

At that, he'd looked up at the _Enterprise_, which was still illuminated like a beacon in the night. "It is. Too bad my ship's not ready yet."

Understanding had dawned on her, and she'd let herself crack a soft smile. "I see."

"So what took you so long with Hudson down at the clinic?"

Grimacing, she'd matched his tale with a story of her own. She'd told him that she'd possibly recruited a trained and qualified doctor from the local clinic, which Pike found surprising enough, but even more surprising when she had described his skill level. It was easy to recruit second-rate medical personnel, but top-notch surgeons? Those were hard to come by in today's political climate.

However, when he'd looked up the man's record himself, it made sense.

Pike had still been off-planet when McCoy had been in the news, but it wasn't hard to find the media records. Looking through all of the details while waiting for sunrise, he found himself feeling bad for the man. A brilliant career that had barely begun, a family tragedy that had ruined it, and it was all a matter of public record. McCoy must have been sunk pretty low to end up in Iowa with the Rural Doctors program. Pike hoped he would do well in Starfleet. A doctor of his talents with a reputation for thinking outside the box? A man like that would be a good addition to the medical staff aboard Starfleet's new flagship… as would Kirk, if he could get his act together.

Naturally, Pike and Toland had hedged bets with a friendly wager of whose impromptu recruit would actually show up. Pike was more than pleased that the bet came up even, and the shuttlecraft was leaving Iowa with a full payload of forty fresh faces. Well, some were fresher than others, but it seemed good enough.

A green indicator light flashed on his control panel, and he toggled the shuttle intercom switch. "This is Captain Pike. We've been cleared for takeoff."

A moment later, Toland was bustling back into the pilot's compartment and was strapping herself into the copilot's seat. "I might have convinced that doctor to join up, but he's going to be a piece of work," she said with a huff.

"What's his problem?" Pike asked casually, activating the primary engines and powering up the inertial dampeners.

"Aside from displaying an aversion to authority, a penchant for sarcasm, and a bedside manner that almost makes a Klingon seem cuddly?"

"You sound like you've found a friend." Pike tried not to grin as he felt Toland's eyes drilling into the side of his face. "Was he sick? Drunk?"

Toland shook her head as she tapped her authorization code into the copilot's controls. "Scared of flying."

Pike couldn't help himself. He laughed. "He'll have to get over that quickly."

She didn't reply as Pike activated the thrusters and the shuttlecraft lifted off the ground. As they lifted into the air, Pike couldn't help but stare at the _Enterprise_ one last time, her half-finished shell gleaming silver-white in the morning sun. His breath almost caught, and he cleared his throat.

"She's gonna be gorgeous," he said reverently, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was taking the shuttle the long way around the shipyard towards his approved flight path.

He saw Toland nod out of the corner of his eye. "How long until construction will be complete?" she asked.

Pike felt a small grin creeping up on him. "Three years."

"Hmmm. The ship will be ready before anyone in this batch of cadets even graduates."

Pike let the grin spread across his face. "Oh, I don't know about that. Sometimes, people surprise you."

.&.

Jim wasn't sure whether to be amused or put off by the growling declaration, _I might throw up on you_. The cantankerous man had been dragged out of the bathroom, only to grudgingly occupy the empty seat next to him, and then rattle off a litany of possible ways to die in space. He looked like he'd had just as miserable of a night as Jim, and was obviously the only other person on the shuttle who wasn't one of the expected recruits – as if he'd been plucked out of his own dead-end life as well. Strangely, even though the guy was gruff and had obviously been drinking a bit, Jim found himself welcoming that natural companionship from someone who might be in the same sort of boat as him.

"Jim Kirk," he introduced himself, feeling the burn of the whiskey as he knocked back a small nip. Bourbon, actually. Pretty good bourbon, he noted.

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy," the guy replied, then accepted his flask back from Jim and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He settled back into his seat for a moment, only to jolt sharply upright as the shuttle's main hatch sealed shut with a metallic clank. He began to fidget with his safety harness again, looking like he was about two degrees removed from panicking.

Jim frowned. If the guy was already likely to throw up, a panic attack would probably make things worse. "Hey. Relax, okay?"

McCoy looked up, and pried his hands away from the harness straps. He nodded shakily, and took a couple of deep breaths. His fingers twitched for his pocket where he'd tucked the flask, but before he could make a definitive move to grab it again, Jim reached over and lightly clapped a hand on his shoulder. It seemed to steady him a bit. "Thanks," he grumbled, looking a bit embarrassed. Jim pulled his hand away when McCoy nodded again, a bit less shaky this time. He finally looked sideways and made eye contact. "So why are you on this flying tin can, kid? No uniform, and you're a damned mess. Running from something?"

Jim chuckled drily. "Nah. I guess you could say I'm here on a dare." No need to go into details with a guy he'd just met, Jim reasoned.

"Right," McCoy said slowly, eyeing Jim's shirt and face meaningfully. "Then what the hell happened to you?"

"What? Oh." Jim looked down at his shirt, which still had dried blood on it. He'd washed his face after Pike had left the bar, but he couldn't wash away the bruises, and he hadn't gone home to get a change of clothes. It hadn't really seemed important at the time. "I never quite did get the hang of clothing reprocessors," he said in the manner of a brush-off.

McCoy snorted. "Uh-huh. How did the other guy look?"

"Oh, about like that," Jim said under his breath, indicating with a tilt of his chin towards the oversized cadet sitting further down the row. "But I'm sorry to say, he was that ugly when we started. Didn't see much of the other three."

One critical eyebrow shot upwards, surprise written all over McCoy's face. "That was _you_."

Jim leaned back away from the guy, feeling like he was missing something. "What was me?"

McCoy gave him a scathing look. "I had to patch up your handiwork last night. The one you whacked with the liquor bottle."

A bit of memory flashed across Jim's mind – the satisfying crash of the shattering bottle, which had sent at least one of his attackers to the floor. He couldn't help himself: he grinned. "That was a pretty good move, if I do say so myself."

McCoy rolled his eyes dramatically. "Yeah, well, it did quite a number on him. That abrasive little bastard of an officer…" He growled low in his throat, then shook his head. "She dragged him into the clinic last night – said he and his friends had attacked a civilian."

For a moment, Jim actually felt embarrassed, but before he could deflect the conversation, he was interrupted by the lurch of the shuttlecraft as it lifted off the ground.

As always, Jim felt the little thrill that he'd always gotten whenever he travelled by air. He loved to fly, and he felt himself lean forward just a little bit in anticipation. He was also happy to have an excuse to stop talking about the previous night's brawl. Really, how much was he going to share with this idiosyncratic doctor who really had no business being on a shuttlecraft, much less in Starfleet? Of course, Jim reasoned, who the hell was he to judge? They both looked like shit, and anyone looking at them objectively would probably figure they were both in the wrong place. They looked like a matched set. Jim couldn't help but grin as he glanced back over at McCoy.

And that's when he noticed McCoy's knuckles going skeletal white as he strangled the safety harness over his chest. They perfectly matched the clenched jaw, the lines of tension around eyes that were tightly squeezed shut, and the sudden pallor in McCoy's cheeks. Jim furrowed his eyebrows. _Damn. I hope he knows what he's got himself into._

He might have just brushed it off and let the guy suffer on his own, but McCoy seemed like the only person on the damned shuttle who was in as awkward of a position as he was. Plus, he _had_ shared his booze. Really good booze, at that. After a night of riding around the long country roads and trying to think clearly through the chilly air and the headache, it had been just what Jim had needed. Jim leaned in a bit closer.

"Hey. _Hey._ You okay in there?"

"Just fucking peachy," McCoy grumbled under his breath.

"You really hate flying, don't you?"

One eye popped open, looking just a bit crazed. "Gee kid, ya think?"

Jim cocked his head, feeling just a bit of pity for the guy. "You're going to have to get over that, ya know."

"I'll be fine," he snapped. For a minute, McCoy stared at the floor, breathing roughly, but eventually he seemed to get himself under control. "So," he started again, not fully covering the shaking in his voice, "where'd you get the brilliant idea to get into a brawl with a bunch of Starfleet cadets?"

"Hey, it wasn't my idea. They were trying to pick a fight," he said under his breath. "I was just being friendly."

"Heh, real friendly. So, you took on four, huh?" McCoy gave him an appraising look.

"You bet," Jim said, trying to sound blasé.

"Great. Reckless and sarcastic."

"As if I've got a monopoly on sarcasm between these two seats," Jim said lightly. "Besides, I was walking away. Cupcake there pulled a sucker-punch to start the mess. Clearly, he recognized my advantage in a fair fight."

Down the row of cadets, the thick-necked bastard he'd mentally christened as "Cupcake" gave him a sideways glare. Jim started to narrow his eyes in return, which he had to admit really hurt around his left eye, but his staring match was interrupted almost immediately as McCoy grabbed his arm and tugged him, sharply drawing his attention away from Cupcake.

"Well, that explains a lot," McCoy said, more to himself than to Jim, as he released Jim's arm. "Sarcastic, reckless, and bull-headed." He leaned his head back, stared at the ceiling, and grumbled something that sounded like "_goddamned kid gonna get himself killed out there_."

Jim scowled. "Hey, give me some credit here. I never went looking for trouble in my life. Trouble has just been good at finding me." _Since the fucking day I was born_, he thought darkly. "I can take care of myself."

McCoy rolled his eyes and leaned his head around, looking more at Jim's face and less at his bloodied shirt. From there, Jim got a better whiff of the bourbon that McCoy had been drinking, but the man's eyes were still steady, as if he'd either drunk less than it seemed, or he was far too accustomed to the liquor. Jim guessed the later.

"All that just from last night, huh?" McCoy said critically.

Another flush of embarrassment. "Yeah."

"Didn't go home?"

"Nope."

Eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Didn't see a doctor?"

"Not a chance," he said defiantly.

Then, without so much as a warning, McCoy reached up and lightly grasped Jim's chin, which shocked Jim for two reasons. First, he wasn't used to having anyone touch his face unless he was in the middle of a good fuck or a bad fight. Second, he was taken aback by McCoy's hand itself. Less rough than Jim had expected from such a gruff man, the touch was gentle and strangely soothing.

"What?" Jim asked uneasily, beginning to lean away, hoping McCoy would take the hint and let go.

"That nose needs to be reset, you might have a hairline fracture under your left eye socket, and you've got at least a mild concussion."

Surprised by the almost-professional tone, Jim finally pulled back, ducking under McCoy's reach. "Hey, who asked you? I set my nose myself –"

"You did a lousy job of it."

"– and if I wanted to see a doctor, I'd go find one."

For the first time since he'd sat down, McCoy almost looked pleased. "Just your luck, kid. You did."

Jim shrugged edgily. "So? Doesn't mean I was looking for help."

"Well, maybe ya need some." There was an offer underwriting that declaration.

Jim stared at the guy for a long moment, feeling uneasy. Needing help? Definitely not something Jim was used to admitting. Just as much, he wasn't used to people offering. It felt really awkward, but for some reason, it didn't seem out of place from this guy. "Heh," was all he could get himself to say, neither agreeing or disagreeing, and not really sure what to think.

Slowly, McCoy nodded. "You get your ass to the infirmary when we land at the Academy and get yourself patched up."

Now _that_ thought didn't sit right. "No need," Jim shrugged. "It'll be fine. I hate doctors." He rethought that. "No offense, of course. Maybe you don't seem so bad."

At that, McCoy actually chuckled dryly. "Then after in-processing, come with me. I'll fix it."

Jim felt his stomach lurch uneasily. Who was this drunken quack of a doctor, and why did he give a shit? Maybe he didn't, Jim reasoned. A new divorcee, out of money and luck, with only his profession and his bones left to his name? Maybe he needed something to do. Maybe he needed to focus on something other than his own misery. It didn't make the unsettled feeling in Jim's stomach go away though. He didn't like the idea of anyone taking care of him for anything.

But despite the hint of wild-eyed fear still hovering behind McCoy's expression, there was an odd note of compassion there, that the guy really did want to make sure Jim's injuries had been properly tended.

"Uh, thanks –"

He was cut off by a sudden shaking as the shuttle hit a particularly turbulent air pocket. In a heartbeat, McCoy went ghastly pale, and within seconds, a clammy-looking sweat broke out across his face. Shallow, rapid breathing, eyes squeezed tightly shut, hands clenched rigidly to his safety harness. The shuttle banked as it climbed towards the upper atmosphere, hitting a layer of air that actually rattled the shuttlecraft like a small impact. McCoy jolted as though he'd been shocked, then shrunk against his seat even tighter; he looked like he was going to start hyperventilating any second.

Jim shook his head. This wouldn't do at all. He leaned in close and whispered, "Hey McCoy?" No response. "Uh… Leonard?" If anything, the man's eyes squeezed tighter shut. Frowning, Jim nudged the man's knee with his own. "Hey, Bones?"

One eye popped open, a mix of fear and confusion swimming beneath a hard front of irritation. "What?"

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, but the words were clipped and tense and came just a bit too readily – a response Jim recognized all too well. McCoy clearly wasn't fine, and his response was almost comical in its contrast to his appearance.

"Right. You're fine, and my nose is fine, too."

For a split second, McCoy almost seemed to come back to himself. "That nose needs to be fixed."

"No more than you need help." He slowly nodded to himself. "Listen, if you want to get through Starfleet–"

"Fuck it, kid," he choked out between gasps. His eye closed tightly again. "I got myself into this shit. I'll take care of it."

Jim shook his head, not really sure why he was even considering this. For years, nobody had given a shit about Jim Kirk, whether it was for his education, his mother's lunatic boyfriends, his injuries from crazy stunts pulled as a teenager, or… anything. Whatever McCoy's reason for giving a shit about the broken, bloody, beaten mess that was James T. Kirk, the fact remained that for just that moment, however brief, he did. And it looked like McCoy was broken, too. Jim squared his shoulders and leaned forward, looking McCoy in the face.

"Well, tell ya what, Bones. After in-processing, I'll go back with you to let you fix my nose… and then you let me help you."

This time, both of McCoy's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Jim fixed him with a steady gaze, still not quite sure what was making him say this. He kept his voice low and even. "You need help with this. So let me help you."

McCoy's death-grip on his harness straps loosened, ever so slightly. He searched Jim's face, and Jim couldn't help but think of a man dying in the desert who can't believe that the oasis isn't a mirage. "Why?"

Jim tipped his head. "You offered to help me first."

McCoy's eyebrows furrowed in a scowl, simultaneously adjusting his grip even tighter on the safety straps. "Fixin' phobias ain't like mending a broken nose."

Jim shrugged. "We've all got our issues, I guess."

"You some sort of psychoanalyst?"

Jim almost laughed out loud. "Fuck, no. More people would say that I need one."

For a long moment, McCoy stared at him. Finally, he gave a grunt and a nod before closing his eyes and shrinking back against his seat. It was all the affirmation that Jim was going to get, he knew, but hell… good enough. Why not?

_Besides,_ he thought cynically,_ if Cupcake over there is going to be hanging around, it might be good to have a doctor for a friend. And the guy did share his booze._

Jim felt the turbulence stop as the shuttlecraft leveled out, and he glanced out the viewport. The sky was dark above and a vivid blue along the horizon. They were in the upper atmosphere.

Below, the surface of the earth was slowly crawling across the bottom of the viewport. Jim watched as green fields gave way to tan plains, and then the Rocky Mountains jumped up and split the land, separating both the continent and Jim's old life from his new. Dark swaths of trees over brown mountains ran together with white salt flats and red smudges of iron ore eroding down ancient mountainsides, like the land was bleeding out beneath him. From here, the earth was a kaleidoscope of color and texture, spinning serenely in space like every other planet – a mystery and an adventure waiting to happen. No stale old farmhouse, no familiar faces, no man pretending to be his father…

This was definitely better.

It had taken some hard convincing from Captain Pike for Jim to even consider the idea. He'd spent hours riding around in the chill night air, unable to weigh the nauseating dead-end of his life against the unknown of Starfleet and space. The black had swallowed his father, had kidnapped his mother, and seemed to be a waiting disaster if he let himself be rational about it. For that, maybe this crazy Doctor McCoy was right. However, there was nothing better to be had on Earth, either.

Still, he hadn't decided for certain until he finally steered his bike to the shipyards. The glow of the shipyard lights was just starting to fade into the pre-dawn light when he'd arrived, but the ship was there, like a sentinel on the horizon, or a Siren luring him in. It was then, Jim had to admit, that he'd accepted the idea of joining Starfleet. If something that beautiful was there waiting for him, it had to be better than the stale cycle of beer, sex, and dead-end jobs he'd been living.

Starfleet. As soon as he'd made his decision, it was like the whole thing had just gotten into his blood. His mind had raced with the possibilities. New planets, new stars, new adventures. Aliens, danger, challenges, mysteries – space didn't have to be the horrible thing that had torn his family apart. The more his mind churned, the more it was obvious that this was everything he wanted.

Now, with Iowa retreating behind the shuttlecraft and his future in Starfleet coming towards him on the horizon, he wasn't just walking away from his old life; he was racing towards a new one. It might be the same Earth spinning below as the one where he'd awoken two days ago, pulled on a pair of jeans, and thought he'd fall asleep that night as the same miserable waste of space he'd been the day before… but it sure felt different.

_It always looks so much better from up here_, Jim thought.

"Really?"

Jim felt himself jump in his seat, and snapped his head around. McCoy was regarding him intently, and Jim realized he'd spoken aloud. Swallowing his sudden unease at letting out any of his private thoughts, he nodded. "Yeah, it does." He thought for a moment, then grinned and tilted his head towards the window. "You gotta see this."

Instantly, McCoy looked terrified again. "No way, not interested –"

"Bones, take a look."

McCoy flattened his lips stubbornly, and the veins on his temples looked ready to burst, but he finally leaned forward and looked out the viewport. Slowly, his eyes widened and the tight set of his mouth relaxed.

Jim nodded, grinning, even though McCoy wasn't looking at him. "You said she got the whole damn planet in the divorce, right? Well, look at it, Bones. There it is. You've got it. You're the one who's here to see it, so it's all yours. From here, she's a speck. She can't touch you from here. You're so far above her and the whole mess. They can't bother you, they can't trap you, they can't hurt you –"

"They?"

Jim felt his stomach clench, shocked and disgusted at himself. The memories of Frank and every other one of his mother's stupid boyfriends came swimming back, something he'd spent too many years trying to forget. _I've never let that slip… never said to anyone… damn, my head actually does hurt. Change in cabin pressure from the altitude, maybe…_ _maybe they did hit me harder than I thought_, he thought uneasily. Somewhere under that, other fears, nightmares hiding beneath the surface, stabbed sharply at the back of his mind, like something unreal that he'd never been able to explain, and was never able to quite ignore. Suddenly, the look of space outside the window of the cabin seemed too familiar, and he wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible for a human to remember things from the day they were born. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was actually quite painful. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I've just known… you know… friends and shit who have been through… friends who haven't had it so easy…" His voice trailed off, and he was sure McCoy wasn't buying any of it. _Shit, shit, shit… fuck._

But if McCoy suspected anything else, he gave no indication. Simply nodded his head, shrank back into his seat, and closed his eyes.

Knowing that it was better to simply shut up, wait out the shuttlecraft ride, and pretend he'd said nothing, Jim settled down into his own seat. Maybe he should just take off by himself as soon as they'd landed, and face Starfleet Academy the same way he'd faced everything else – on his own. Sure, his head felt fuzzy, and if he could admit it to himself, he was pretty sure he did have a concussion and that his nose needed to be set properly, but he'd had plenty of those before and had survived them just fine without any help. Yeah, that was what he'd do. It was better that way.

Then McCoy cleared his throat. "You're right."

Jim glanced sideways without turning his head. "Huh?"

McCoy's eyes were still closed, but he was nodding slowly. "It does look better from up here."

With a shaky breath, Jim gazed back out the viewport. In the distance, he could already see the gleam of the Pacific ocean shining on the horizon under the early sunrise. He felt an unfamiliar sort of smile creep over his face. Unfamiliar… but strangely right.

On second thought, maybe he would stick with McCoy.

.&.

Pike finished the loop around the shipyard and leveled the shuttlecraft into a steady climb. The ground fell away beneath them, and soon, the deep indigo of the upper atmosphere filled the viewscreen as the world rolled by beneath them. Once past the turbulence of the lower mesosphere, Pike set the autopilot and turned to the internal shuttlecraft monitors.

The cadets were all settled in nicely, chatting amongst themselves. Pike watched for a long moment as Kirk and McCoy carried on what seemed like an intense conversation. It was interesting, he noted, that whenever Kirk would speak, McCoy looked just slightly less terrified. Whenever McCoy started talking, something in the defensive, stand-offish set of Kirk's posture would melt away. Pike grinned. Those two would be a piece of work, but something just seemed to fit there. Maybe they could help each other. Maybe they would both be great.

_I'll do it in three_.

Kirk's words as he'd sauntered onto the shuttlecraft might have seemed like a throwaway boast from anyone else, but Pike was certain that he'd meant it. Some instinct in Pike's mind, his knack for reading people, seeing the two of them talk, told him that with McCoy in the picture, Kirk might just do it… and he'd probably drag McCoy along with him.

Three years. They were both bright enough. They were both sharp enough. And the _Enterprise_ would be ready by then. Maybe… just maybe.

Toland leaned over and glanced at his viewscreen, then snorted. "Those two… I hope this was a good idea."

"They were practically dumped in our hands," he said, gesturing towards the screen. "Two spaces left on the shuttle and everything. It just seems to fit – like the universe was trying to put them here. Who am I to argue with the whims of the universe?"

Toland gave him a cynical look. "You expect me to buy into the idea that the universe has some sort of plan? The universe is a cold place of random chance, Captain. It doesn't care either way."

Pike shrugged. "I have no esoteric inclinations, but sometimes… it just feels right."

She settled back into her seat and busied her hands with a minor course adjustment around an ion surge. "If you insist."

Grinning, Pike didn't reply as he took one glance back at the screen. Kirk and McCoy were both craning their necks to look out the shuttlecraft viewports. Pike felt his eyebrow rise in slight amazement. Considering the phobic behavior McCoy had displayed towards being _anywhere_ that he could possibly see the viewports, this was positively astonishing. Kirk snuck a quick look at McCoy, wearing a broad grin of accomplishment.

_Well I'll be damned_, Pike thought, chuckling to himself. With a tap of the control panel, he switched off the cabin monitor and relaxed back into his own seat, taking in the view that Kirk and McCoy had been enjoying.

Mountains slipped past, giving way to dry hills and scrubby trees. Pike turned off the autopilot and dropped the shuttlecraft into the troposphere over the lush green fields of Central Valley. Finally, the gleam of the Pacific Ocean crested the horizon. As he banked the shuttle into its final descent to the San Francisco Bay area, the proud buildings of Starfleet Academy became visible against the dark hills and smooth fields of the Presidio.

Pike smiled to himself. Maybe the view was better than he thought.

~FIN~


End file.
